


Mission: Infiltrator

by RowWithAChipNPin



Category: Marvel (Movies), Mission: Impossible (Movies), Mission: Impossible - Ghost Protocol (2011), The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Betrayal, Clint Barton is William Brandt, Crossover, Dysfunctional Family, Dysfunctional Relationships, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Faking Death, Family, Grief/Mourning, Love, Male Slash, Mental Health Issues, Mole - Freeform, Multi, PTSD, Psychological Trauma, Spying, Undercover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-11
Updated: 2013-07-11
Packaged: 2017-12-19 04:26:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 20,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/879445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RowWithAChipNPin/pseuds/RowWithAChipNPin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He wished it didn't have to end this way. He enjoyed the IMF, but he'd let the mission become personal. It was going to hurt more to leave. Maybe when it was all over, he could come back and tell them the truth. He was looking forward to rejoining SHIELD, but this was not how he'd wanted it to happen. He hadn't wanted to hurt anyone, especially Benji. Most of all Benji.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dearly Departed

" _ **Whatever happens today, it's not your fault. It's a necessary evil. You'll understand that later, and I hope you can forgive me for what I've put you through, and what I am about to do.**_

Will wished it didn't have to end this way, truly, he did. He'd enjoyed his time with Ethan Hunt's team, more than he should have. He'd let the mission become personal, and it was just going to hurt more to leave. He hoped they didn't blame themselves for this. That would the worst.

_**Don't you dare blame yourselves. You have nothing to be guilty about: I do. You have no idea of the things I've done in my past, and I'm glad for that. If you knew, you would never trust me again, and you'd be completely in the right. I can't be trusted, because that's who I am. A spy. A traitor. I am a soldier following orders, and I know you understand that. I have done horrible things under orders before this; this isn't even a drop in the bucket.** _

It was a simple act to link up the explosive devices that Benji had disabled and setting the timer. He checked the security cameras; the others were almost out. There was a sixty second delay between when he armed the bombs and when they went off, long enough for his teammates to get to safety and long enough for him to send them the message he'd written in advance. It wasn't much, and it sure as hell wouldn't be enough; it would have to be, because it was all they were getting. Maybe when this was all over, he could come back and tell them the truth; the whole truth.

_**The world is changing. Aliens, superheroes, mutants—at this point, I wonder every day if anything can surprise me anymore. Every day, I'm proved wrong, and I'm glad. This is my fault, and I deserve everything that's coming to me. I know that. This is nothing I was ever trained for, but I have responsibilities that extend far beyond and above the IMF, and it's time I dealt with them.** _

His arm throbbed where he'd dug out the new tracker. It was an experimental new thing that the IMF was testing on Ethan's team. It showed an operative's location down to the square yard, and broadcasted their vitals to the system: heart rate, blood pressure, etc. He hadn't healed from the implant yet, so he'd just cut the stitches and used his knife to dig it out, and then he crushed it under the heel of his boot and dropped the remnants of the tracker onto one of the bombs. As far as the monitors back at IMF headquarters were concerned, his vitals had just flat-lined, and it would be completely destroyed in the explosion.

As soon as the countdown reached zero, he would be a ghost, deceased to the government and killed in action to the IMF. His time with Ethan and the IMF was almost at its end; it was time for Clint Barton to return to SHIELD, and for that to happen, William Brandt had to die.

_**There was an idea, once upon a time, to bring together a group of remarkable people, so when we needed them, they could fight the battles that we never could. The idea was eventually scrapped, because the people in question were volatile, dangerous, and unpredictable; they couldn't follow orders and they were not soldiers. Most of them, at least. Put those people together and you couldn't possibly expect what would happen.** _

_**And then the aliens invaded Manhattan, and we saw those people come together and save our planet and her people. A year later, the world is still a changing place, and we all have our parts to play. This is mine.** _

He'd received the termination notice the day before they were sent on the op. SHIELD needed the Hawk back. Clint—Will—also suspected that Fury was aiming to recruit Ethan and the team to SHIELD. He'd been waiting to steal them away for years, long before Will was implanted in the system, and Fury always liked to kill two birds with one stone. Clint suspected Will's death was that stone.

He wasn't sure how he felt about that.

_**I lied to you from the start, and for that, I'm so sorry. It started as an assignment, words on a piece of paper that shaped the very essence of who I was supposed to be, but it's turned into so much more than that. I hope that, if you can't accept this, you can certainly understand it.** _

_**Sometimes people get hurt for the things they believe; sometimes, people die. Everyone marches to the beat of a certain drummer, and I've been given my orders. I intend to follow them, because I believe.** _

" _Move your ass, Clint, you're running out of time,"_ Black Widow barked in his ear. He grinned. Ah, Nat, he'd missed her. She was waiting with the Quinjet a block away, and getting testy, apparently.

He was looking forward to rejoining the Avengers. It had been over a year since he'd really been back; quick two-day trips every three months did not a visit make. He missed telling dirty jokes with Natasha in Russian so the others couldn't understand; he missed pulling pranks with Tony, hanging out with Bruce, and sparring with Steve. Hell, he even missed harassing Coulson. The Agent-K of SHIELD would spar with him if he asked nicely, and he always had a stack of available missions and a cookie waiting for Clint.

Now, if only he could get past the huge stone in the pit of his stomach that yelled at him, _Are you a fucking idiot?! Don't you know how much this is going to hurt Ethan, Benji, and Jane?! Especially Benji; can you do this to him?_

_**Maybe one day, you'll forgive me for this. I can't tell you everything you want to know, but I can tell you this.** _

Oh, he knew, and he felt terrible about it. They were his friends, and he'd even started to consider them family. He'd hoped that one day he could tell them the truth and not feel like he was shooting them all in the back. He also hoped that they could find it in their hearts to forgive him this betrayal once they found out the truth. When they found out that their friend was a spy spying on other spies (specifically: them), and that he'd faked his death in order to return to his real team…he didn't even want to think of how'd they react. Certainly they'd be pissed, and hurt; probably disappointed, too.

He kicked open the service exit and into the alley, swinging nimbly up the fire escape of the neighboring building. He perched on the edge and watched his friends dash across the street.

_**My name is not William Brandt and I am not IMF.** _

He closed his eyes and braced himself, counting down the time left until the world was consumed by fire and heat, the building gutted by the blast the C4 would cause.

_Three_

_Two_

He opened his eyes and smiled.

_**Good-bye, and thank you for everything.** _

_**-C.B.** _

_One_

And on that night, while his teammates watched in horror and the message arrived on the server, William Brandt died in the destruction of Building 19 and Clint Barton slipped away into the night over the rooftops.


	2. Screwed to IMF

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Clint Barton goes undercover

It had been one year, four months, twelve days, fourteen hours, and nine minutes since Natasha had freed him from Loki's mind control.

One year, four months, three days, two hours, and fifty-eight minutes…fifty-nine minutes since the SHIELD shrinks had diagnosed him with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder and he found out that he couldn't go from his quarters to the mess hall without being subjected to suspicious looks, frantic whispering, and nasty comments.

It had been one year, three months, nine days, six hours, and twenty-three minutes since Clint Barton became William Brandt.

Yes, he counted to the minute, because while that's not something Barton does, it's something that Brandt would do. In fact, he would probably keep track to the second, but even Barton wasn't _that_ good of an actor.

He'd known in his gut that his life would change forever when he accepted this assignment. The look on Coulson's face when he handed Clint the mission packet, he _knew_. As soon as he heard the words 'undercover' and 'Ethan Hunt,' he knew something else: life was about to get a lot more complicated. He'd encountered Ethan Hunt, wonder agent, once before in Barcelona; to cut the story short, he really hoped the other man didn't remember him.

He waited until he returned to his quarters before opening the packet. He locked his door, set the security, and dropped into the chair at his desk. He emptied the envelope's contents onto his desk. A jumpdrive, some photographs, three keys on a ring, an access card, and a profile. He settled back and started reading:

**Full Name: William Francis Brandt**

At least they let him keep his middle name. Brandt—not too far away from Barton—and William was a good name. It could be worse.

**Place of Birth: Waverly, Iowa**

**Age: 31**

**Nationality: American**

**Race: White**

**Height: 5' 9"**

**Weight: approx. 195 lbs**

**Hair: Blonde**

**Eyes: Blue**

Well, that was all true, though those 195 pounds were pure muscle.

**Position: Analyst, former field agent**

Analyst? Were they freaking joking? An _analyst?!_ He knew that he had some issues—namely, he'd been labeled crazy and had taken the blame for blowing up the Helicarrier and killing thirty-two agents (what about mind control did they not understand)—but he was still a fully-functional field agent. He would go crazy on desk duty.

Crazier than he already was, that is.

**Military Branch: Army (Rangers), CIA**

Clint had never actually enlisted in the Army; he'd been a freelance contractor that was occasionally hired to kill someone for his country. But the person he needed to be for this assignment would have a military history, so he had one.

**Build: Average weight, stocky, muscled, athletic**

**Marital Status: Single**

That was true, mostly. He and Natasha had been engaged once upon a time, but she'd broken it off. After an awkward spell, they'd settled back into their old partnership, which was basically flirting, occasionally sleeping together, and terrorizing the junior agents. Then there was that… _whatever_ with Bobbi; yes, he knew that his love life was majorly screwed up.

**Legal Status: U.S. citizen with no criminal record**

No criminal record? Was Fury joking? Alright, he'd been pardoned, but Clint's pride was slightly dented to think his new identity was a goody-two-shoes. Really, he didn't know if he could hold in his destructive tendencies long enough to be on his best behavior; it was going to be a real test.

**Affiliation: IMF (Impossible Missions Force)**

He sighed: the IMF. Clint had done work for them before, but just contracted stuff. He'd never been able to get past the "this is your mission, should you choose to accept it." Were they serious? Someone high up the food chain had seen way too many spy movies. But this begged the question, why was Fury assigning him to their allies? He knew the Director wasn't pleased with the lack of interagency communication, but implanting him inside; that was crossing so many jurisdictional issues, it was almost funny. He might not know the reasoning behind the plant, but he knew why _he_ was being assigned.

None of his former SHIELD comrades trusted him anymore, not after what he'd done under Loki's control. He was an enemy in their eyes, and worse, a traitor. He needed to get away from it, needed a chance to come to terms with what had happened.

With what he'd done, what he'd become.

**Description: William Francis Brandt, known as Will to his friends, is a mild-mannered man born and raised in Waverly, Iowa to Harold and Edith Brandt, an accountant and primary school teacher respectively. He has two siblings: an older brother, Charles, and a younger sister, Natalie. He played football and participated in Academic Decathlon in high school, was the president of the student body his senior year and a member of his school's French Club, and was 3rd in his graduating class.**

Well, he'd been born in Waverly, those were his parents' first names, and he did have a brother, but the rest of that was complete and utter bullshit. He'd grown up in the Carson Carnival of Traveling Wonders, his brother's name was Charles Bernard aka "Barney," and he'd never finished high school. And "Natalie" was his sister. Interesting, and unfortunate; you don't make out with your sister. You also don't sleep with your sister. Unless you're into incest; which he wasn't…until now, apparently.

**He obtained duel bachelor's in international affairs and information technology, graduating _egregia cum laude_ from Harvard. He also has a BA in political science from Yale. **

_…_ Wait, what? _"egregia cum laude?"_ Who was Fury joking? Clint knew weapons, tactics, etc, but he couldn't even help Laura with her trigonometry homework. Not that she needed it; he had a sneaking suspicion that she only asked to make him feel better, and only then because Bruce or Natasha advised her to. The kid wouldn't do something like that on her own. Progress she had made, but she was still a callous bitch.

He had managed to teach her how to clean up at poker, however, something he had been immensely proud of; she was so cute when she was wiping out whatever poor sap she'd convinced to play with her. Then she served him his pride on a silver platter when she kicked his ass at his own game. Then it was slightly less cute.

 _Let me rephrase that:_ sneaky _callous bitch._

**William has an eidetic memory and is trained in several forms of martial arts. He is skilled at hand-to-hand combat and is an average marksman. He is a capable strategist and able to predict scenarios with startling accuracy.**

The file listed decent scores across the board, setting Will Brandt as a skilled agent with a bright future. The man described in the profile wasn’t SHIELD material, certainly, but wasn’t that the whole point? To create a cover that would separate Clint completely from his old life; to turn SHIELD’s wildcard, described as “cocky, narcissistic, and reckless,” into the IMF golden boy, a shoo-in for any position he wanted. Coulson had wiped the red from Barton’s ledger and thrown in some Captain America for good measure.

**He was a field agent of the IMF until an incident during a protection detail led him to retire and become a full-time analyst.**

It went on to describe the "incident." According to this, Will Brandt had been assigned as the leader of the protection detail of fellow IMF agent Ethan Hunt and his wife, Julia, in Croatia. They were alerted that a 6-man Serbian hit squad was after them. Brandt felt that the job would be simple enough since they knew the squad was coming, but he'd felt that he should warn Ethan and Julia. However, Brandt was a by-the-book man and had followed his order. One day, Ethan went for a run and Brandt followed, leaving two agents with Julia. When Brandt returned, the two agents were unconscious and Julia was missing. Days later, they found her body, or what was left of it, in a ditch by the road. This led Brandt to retire from his position as a field agent and become an analyst.

As for Hunt, in retaliation for his wife's murder, he killed six Serbian nationalists linked to the crime and was currently doing time in Rankow Prison.

Clint groaned. So, he was playing a tortured soul doing penance for a mistake in judgment.

God help him.


	3. Two in One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Will is bored

Will Brandt was bored. Very bored. In fact, he was so bored, he was considering stabbing himself just to break the monotony. Now, he had no problem with airvents; in fact, he liked them very much. Clint especially loved the ventilation system in Stark/Avengers Tower, and while _Will_ had never been there, he was quite fond of it as well. It was big enough for him to fit easily, small enough to be comfortable, and stretched for several miles—long enough for him to spend days up there without anyone able to locate him.

Which he did, at one point; then JARVIS reported him to Tony. The billionaire would have been perfectly happy with leaving Clint to wander the airvents, except that would have made Bruce unhappy and Tony would do anything to keep that from happening. So, if Clint spent more than an hour in the vents, JARVIS would dump him out in whatever room he happened to be over. After the fourth time, Clint got tired of falling on his ass from fifteen feet in the air.

But this was not the ventilation system of Stark/Avengers Tower, nor was it the system of SHIELD; he had a reputation of lurking in it just so he could jump out and frighten people for the hell of it. No, he was crouched in an airvent at the Beyond Corporation©'s headquarters…in Cardiff… _Cardiff_ of all places. Why couldn't the Corporation© have chosen somewhere a little more exciting? Like Hawaii, Rio, or Toronto. He'd have taken remote _Alaska_ for God's sake; anywhere but _Cardiff!_ He thought it was because whoever picked the locations wanted to kill anyone attempting to infiltrate through boring; it was certainly more cost effective than bullets, quieter too.

_Okay, guys; I'm in position. Let's move it! _

Brandt was jerked from his musings and back into the real world, and after the long second it took for the words to register, he grinned a grin that was a little more than manic. It was the sort of grin that didn't belong on the face of Will Brandt; it belonged to Clint Barton.

_Oh thank the infernal gods! It's about goddamned time!_

After waiting for more than fifteen minutes for Ethan to do something that would have taken Hawkeye less than five, Brandt was practically vibrating with pent-up energy. _Yessir!_ exclaimed Barton…Brandt. Ethan didn't seem to notice his unusual enthusiasm, but then, he _was_ the slow poke. A bit slow on the uptake as well as mission progress. Clint and Natasha could have finished this in under half the time it was taking the IMF; then again, Ethan's outrageously complicated plans were a helluva good time and massively entertaining.

He leapt into action—figuratively, of course, considering where he was—kicking the grate out of the way and dropping down into the lab; the _clang_ was covered up by the loud _thud_ of his landing. He was enjoying the thought of blowing up a building with far more enthusiasm than was healthy, but he didn't really care.

 _I'm in the lab, setting the charges,_ he said, sticking the explosives against the stack of containers.

The Beyond Corporation© had developed a nerve toxin, Fex-M4, that would make VX look like tear gas. The scientists at the Corporation© had found a way to synthesize the toxin into a crystalline form that was essentially harmless until an electric current was run through it, triggering the bonds to release and aerosolizing the gas. Even as the IMF team was doing their job, representatives of various terrorist cells were on their way to purchase the toxin.

Their job was to destroy the toxin before the Corporation could complete the sales.

He switched frequencies and smiled when he heard a familiar voice in his ear, _About time, Hawk._ It was nice to hear from Natasha again. _Yeah, yeah, _ he said, _sorry. You at the drop-off point?_ As if he had to ask. He could almost see her roll her eyes. _I'm not the one running behind schedule._

Ah, ever loving Black Widow. Oh how he missed her…well, mostly missed staring at her ass _._

 _Assets!_ He meant _assets,_ like her fine arsenal of weaponry, those Widow's Bite wristbands, and…okay, yeah, her ass. Seriously, it was fan-fucking-tastic, especially in that little black number from Budapest.

He grabbed a canister of the toxin, a silver container marked with the biohazard symbol. He would hand it off to Widow and she'd take it back to SHIELD, where the scientists would reverse-engineer it and create a cure. _And mass-produce the toxin for a military weapon._ He decided to conveniently ignore the tiny voice in the back of his head that was most probably right.

_I've got the package._

He set the explosives to detonate and started running.

_I'm on my way._


	4. Haunted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Clint thinks about why he does what he does

When he climbed out of the manhole and into the alley, it first he thought he'd gotten the location wrong, because there was no one in sight. It was like a scene from a movie: some poor sucker alone in an abandoned alley at midnight, complete with the single flickering streetlamp and reflective puddle. He growled and turned around, and almost screamed like a little girl.

"Would you _stop_ that?!"

How many times had he heard someone say that to him? He didn't know, but he heard it a lot, usually after dropping out of the airvents, shooting at somebody, or just creeping up on them. He'd used to find it hilarious, because no one could sneak up on _him._ Then Fury managed to recruit Natasha Romanoff to SHIELD after Clint brought her back, and he'd suddenly discovered that he was no longer the most badass ninja around. He remembered when she first came to SHIELD. While he'd been slightly pissed about losing his King Ninja status, he'd been pleased that Coulson and Fury had taken his suggestions and made her an agent instead of executing the sexy redhead with the seemingly endless supply of guns and pointy things of various types; also, he gained a kickass partner, who quickly creeped her way from just his work into every other aspect of his life. Now, he wouldn't have it any other way.

She smirked, but it didn't reach her eyes. "As soon as you stop jumping," she said. She took the canister and inspected it for a moment before placing it carefully in her bag. She turned back to look at him and shook her head.

"How much longer are you on this assignment?" she asked. There was something she wasn't telling him; she was keeping secrets, and he didn't like it. They didn't keep secrets from each other; from others, yeah, but not each other.

Nat must have seen the realization in his face because she muttered something akin to a good-bye and turned to leave. He grabbed her arm. "Tasha, what's wrong? What aren't you telling me?"

She pulled out of his grasp and disappeared into the shadows, and the sound of a motorcycle revving a moment later told him she'd taken off. He scowled and before he could think better, he whirled and slammed his fist into the side of the nearest building. He immediately regretted it; brick vs. flesh and bone, brick wins.

Then he swore. When he was done, he swore again, because the thought of Natasha keeping secrets infuriated him to no end. He understood the _why,_ he just didn't understand the _what._ What could possibly be bothering her enough that she wouldn't tell him? There were some things that he couldn't confide in her, either, because primarily she was a SHIELD agent, and her first loyalty was to Fury. Clint's first loyalty was to his friends, the family he'd found in the Avengers, and then to the world, SHIELD, the IMF team, himself, and Natasha, in that order. It's hard to trust a SHIELD agent, because they are the best of the best, the spies that spy on other spies. He was proof of that.

Another curse and he cooled back down. He would take his anger and frustration out on a punching bag or target later; right now, he needed to get his head back in the game. He'd been disconnected from the IMF frequency for exactly 5 minutes and 27 seconds. He took a deep breath and Clint was gone, Will in his place. He disconnected from SHIELD's line and reconnected to the IMF's. He cleared his throat and tapped the mic experimentally.

 _Hey, it's Blue. Can anyone hear me? Hello?!_ Will tried to sound anxious; it wasn't hard. Almost immediately, Ethan was yelling at him. _Where the hell are you? Why weren't you answering?_ The other man sounded worried and slightly ticked. Will started walking towards the rendezvous location the IMF team had agreed on prior to the mission. _I'm heading towards the rendezvous; I'll be there soon. I got trapped after I blew the lab. I couldn't get in touch until I got clear._

He vaguely wondered _when_ exactly he'd lost the little voice in his head. He had never been the remorseful type, or one to be bothered by a guilty conscience. He'd been the little boy who could look his mother in the eye and promise her that the sky was red, the grass was white, and it had most _definitely_ been the dog that broke the vase. He'd skipped school, cheated on tests, swiped stuff from stores, picked pockets from customers at the circus—he'd never had trouble looking at himself in the mirror after. It was that trait that made him a superb assassin. He didn't mind being the executioner. He could kill without a second thought, with a gun, bow, or some other weapon, and he could make it either painless or excruciating.

Tasha once asked him if it kept him up at night, what they did for a living. He said no, and asked her if it kept _her_ up; she was no, too. He had to wonder why. Bruce had never intentionally hurt anyone in his life, but the Hulk had killed people, and whether the Hulk and Bruce were the same person—the jury was perpetually out on that one—Bruce beat himself up daily over the lives lost. Tony got piss drunk whenever there was a casualty related to Iron Man; Steve _tried_ to get drunk and when he failed, he beat the shit out of every piece of equipment he could get his hands on. Thor…well, Clint wasn't sure what the God of Thunder did when someone died in one of his fights, but he was sure it bothered the guy.

For him, he just didn't feel it anymore. He didn't remember names and faces; no, that wasn't quite true.

He'd memorized the names and faces of every agent who'd died when Loki had him attack the Helicarrier. A lot of good people—honorable men and women serving a greater purpose—had died at his hand, and he hadn't been able to do a damn thing about it. The only thing he could do was try to redeem himself.

He needed to avenge their deaths.


	5. Slipping Strangers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the lines get a little blurry

Natasha ignored the little voice in her head as she sped onto the interstate, cutting off a truck and earning herself the middle-finger salute. She didn't care; she had more important things on her mind, like the deadly Fex-M4 toxin she was carrying or having to lecture Laura about unnecessary murder.

Then there was the small matter of telling her best friend and on-again/off-again lover that she was engaged to be married to a KGB agent created as a Soviet response to Captain America back during the Second World War.

Oh, yeah, that was not a conversation she was looking forward to having. She cared about Clint a lot; hell, she loved him. She was even _in_ love with him a little bit. But there was no future for her and Clint, and she was deeply, truly in love with Alexei. He made her happy, and he was a challenge; he had been her partner back when she was an espionage operative for the USSR during World War II, and they made a good team. They went back, way back; she'd still been training under Logan when they first met.

Of course, Clint was the best partner she'd ever had; Hawkeye and Black Widow were an unstoppable team, a force to be reckoned with under any circumstances. This had been proven time and time again. They were best friends, partners; they were lovers, two sides of the same coin. Without him, she would still be a heartless killer, a mercenary, if not dead. In fact, she probably _would_ be dead if he hadn't disobeyed orders and brought her back to SHIELD instead of killing her.

She swerved around a van and took the exit. A quick glance at the clock in her periphery; she had fifteen minutes to get to the airstrip and rendezvous with the SHIELD tact-team. She took a series of side streets at completely unsafe speeds, disrupting three homeless camps and narrowly missing a drug dealer.

They knew each other inside and out, and that was why it was so difficult to tell him she was getting married. After she said "I do," there would be no more casual sex with Clint. There would be no mid-mission make-out session, no below the waist groping, and she knew that Alexei would tolerate it, but would prefer if they kept the flirting to friendly.

They wouldn't be Clint and Nat anymore; they would be Agent Barton and Agent Romanoff. While they could never manage to act professionally, they would have to keep it to a romantic minimum—platonic only. If it were anyone but Alexei, Natasha would say "screw it", or rather, "screw him." But she really, truly loved the Red Guardian, enough that she was willing to give up her relationship with Clint.

Now, she only had to tell Clint about it…and then ask him if he'd walk her down the aisle and give her away, with minimum hostility if possible.

**_MI4 & A _ **

It took him five minutes to reach the rendezvous point, and that gave him time to think. That wasn't necessarily a good thing, because it was during that time that he was forced to confront the fact that, while Natasha was keeping secrets, she wasn't the only one. There were certain things he hadn't told him, things he didn't really want her to know. For instance, he wasn't sure he wanted her to know how close he'd gotten emotionally to Ethan and the team, or that he wasn't sure when the line between Will and Clint got real blurry.

He especially didn't want her to know that he was in love with one of his IMF teammates.

He wasn't sure when it happened, exactly, and he couldn't pinpoint the day he woke up and realized, _well, fuck, I'm head over heels for him._ It wasn't exactly news that his sexual compass didn't point north all the time, but even he would never have seen this coming. A Russian bombshell with an affinity for destruction and an adorable scientist with seriously fucked up anger issues; he'd been with all kinds of men and women. But no one had really affected him as much as the one and only Benji Dunn.

There was something about the British technician that did him in. It wasn't like the thing he had with Natasha, and he was very glad it wasn't. Contrary to popular belief, Clint and Natasha's relationship was not complicated; that was because they simply didn't have one. With Natasha, it was a no-strings-attached relationship that adapted and evolved; they could be emotional at the same time as logical and objective. There was a certain reason to what they had. When one or the other had found another lover, they'd never had a problem. Natasha hadn't been upset when Clint took a break from her to seek a relationship with Bruce; she'd simply found herself a new bang buddy. With Natasha, it was just sex. Despite all their amazing abilities that made them far superior to the Average Joe, they _were_ both human…mostly, if you don't count the biotechnology they'd been enhanced with at different times. And sex was a part of the human experience; it was like cracking your neck, sometimes everyone needed it.

There was nothing intimate about their tussles; it was always rough, heated, and violent. More often than not, one or both of them came out of it with a bloody lip and bruises. There was no cute, no cuddly, and definitely no sappy love lost between them. What happened when they got together could not be called "making love" by any stretch of the imagination, because it was demanding kisses, rough hands, and desperation, anger, and desire. It was purely primal, a way to work off sexual frustration on a more-than-willing partner. And they were both willing. Natasha and Clint were a team of two, unstoppable in the field and inseparable from the moment they were assigned as partners.

It was not the same with Benji. _Benji._ He smiled as he ducked into a side alley as a shortcut. With the Brit, it was more than sex; and the sex was more than a sparring match in the sheets…or on the couch or kitchen table. It was lazy Sunday mornings just _being_ there together, gentle smiles, laughing whispers, and soft kisses—knowing that they were safe together. He wanted to make Benji as happy as the Brit made him, and he would follow him to the ends of the earth. It was so much more than what he had with Natasha, and Clint…Will really thought that he could have a future with Benji.

Now if only he could get over the guilt of lying to his lover for over a year since the day they met on that train…and the anxiety of telling his jealous _Russian_ partner it was over.

He didn't even have the chance to knock before the van doors burst open, he was yanked through, and they slammed behind him. He had to forcibly suppress the reflex to brain the person who grabbed him; if anyone but Benji had done it, he would have lost it. Yes, he was jumpy, but that was how he'd survived long enough to get into this mess in the first place. Instead, he settled for swearing, loudly and of the four letter variety.

"Jesus fucking Christ, Benji!" he exclaimed, clapping a hand over his heart to slow the pounding. It took a moment, during which time his eyes adjusted and he realized that there was one too many people in the vehicle. Quickly, too quickly for most people to process, he took inventory.

_Benji, next to me, bruised ribs, breathing heavy; probably got caught in the blast or by a perimeter check. Dammit._

_Jane, seems fine, couple scratches, torn shirt, can see bra; good look on her. Nat has the same one, Victoria's Secret?_

_Ethan, driving, black eye, swelling, scraped knuckles. Guard caught him, forced to fight guard, brought guard back. Poor shit._

The fourth member, presumably a guard, was handcuffed to the seat with a hood over their—his—head, slumped over in the. He was probably unconscious and would be for some time, because he was a muscular dude and Ethan wouldn't be taking any chances. The hairs on the back of Will's neck rose and recognition tickled his consciousness, but he dismissed it until later.

He switched his focus back to Ethan, cracked a grin, and said the first thing that came to mind: "Why do _you_ get to bring a souvenir?" He immediately smacked himself over the head, because that was something _Clint_ would do, not Will. He couldn't believe he'd just said that, and judging from Ethan's raised eyebrow, neither could he. Will _had_ to get his head back in the game. He shrugged, letting the manic grin slip into an easy smile. "I have no idea where that came from," he admitted/bullshitted, and hoped that their fearless leader wouldn't call him on it.

He didn't. And Will was ever so grateful for that.


	6. Domestic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Will gets domestic and Clint doesn't get the chance to enjoy it

Bleak sunlight trickled in under the curtains, spilling over the carpet of the bedroom. It was a nice room, as bedrooms go, with a large picture window looking out over the street. The walls were mostly blank, with a picture here and a shelf there. There was a string of clothes forming a trail from the living room to the bed.

Will blinked against the dim morning light, focusing on the man next to him as his vision cleared. A smile spread across his face as he took in the heartwarming sight; Benji was curled up against him, face nestled into the crook of his neck, one hand entwined with his own and the other pressed against Will's chest, right over his heart.

He breathed in deep, inhaling and cataloguing: the soap they both used because they didn't bother to buy more than one, the detergent used on the sheets, the oil he used in his motorcycle, and something that could only be described as purely Benji.

This was what he wanted, and he knew that now. He wanted to spend every morning waking up with the Brit in his arms; this feeling of love and warmth was nothing compared to what he felt with Nat or Bobbi.

The feeling of love was followed very quickly with overwhelming guilt. He was in love with Benji Dunn and he'd been lying to him from even before they met. He wanted so badly to tell him the truth—his job, his _name_ —but he couldn't. He'd tried, but when he looked into those eyes, he'd found that he physically couldn't. Because when Benji learned the truth, he would _never_ trust him again. Clint didn't know if he could survive that, and Will _knew_ he couldn't.

So he would bide his time until the day he thought Benji could take the truth and not leave. And the black velvet box would remain at the very back of his sock drawer, touched only when he held it and thought about what could be, until that day came.

**_MI4 & A_ **

It was two weeks after the mission in Munich when his life became his hell. He would never forget the day; he'd been supposed to meet Benji at their favorite restaurant for dinner. He'd been planning on asking Benji to move in with him, something he'd been thinking about for several weeks.

He was leaving his apartment when he got the call. _Beep-beep-beep. Beep-beep-beep._ It took him several seconds to realize that it was his SHIELD communicator that was beeping, not his cell; he spent another several seconds staring at it, dumbfounded, and trying to remember his code.

 _57-1964 Hawkeye._ In an instant he'd slid back into Clint—cold, focused, ready to follow orders—and he forgot that he had a dinner date.

 _Agent Barton. We don't have time for formality, so let's get down to it._ Agent Coulson, back on duty after the near-miss with Loki. _SHIELD has received a warning from the Fantastic Four that there's an anomaly forming near the sun. The Avengers are being called on to investigate; it's that kind of anomaly._

Clint grinned. If the Avengers were being called in, that meant it involved hostile aliens, supervillains, or a mixture of the two. In some cases, it even meant dealing with creatures from another dimension that played cat's cradle with his intestines and then popped up a month later bearing cookies.

…Yeah, that one ranked among the strangest things he'd ever seen; topped even that incident with the goldfish, the Sharpie, and a concussion-addled Tony, and that was pretty damn strange, even on Avengers standards.

_A'ight, I'm up for a good fight. I'm getting bored with terrorists and spies. Gimme aliens and the supernatural anyday. Where's my ride?_

There was a long pause and there it was—his soldier's sense was tingling.

_It's not going to be as easy as picking you up at the corner. This isn't that kind of mission, Hawkeye, this is a biggie. We don't know if it's another Manhattan or not, but it's looking that way. We're getting strange readings from the anomaly._

He knew what was coming next, and his heart stuttered and his blood ran cold in anticipation.

_We're pulling you out of your assignment. You're being reinstated at SHIELD, full agent. We need the Avengers and, stable or not, you're part of that team. We've arranged for you to be assigned a mission near one of Stark's private airfields. You'll go straight from there to the Helicarrier for briefing._

_We're terminating Will Brandt._


	7. Two Roads in a Depressing Wood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Will Brandt dies and Clint Barton walks away

It had been two weeks, four hours, thirty-seven minutes, and eighteen seconds since the world stopped turning and his heart stopped beating.

_I stayed for the whole funeral procession. It was so strange; it feels like I was just talking to him over the phone._

**_Boom._ **

_He said he had something important to talk to me about. He never got the chance. I'm always going to wonder what he was talking about, and I'm never going to know for sure._

They hadn't even had a body to use for the funeral; it had been a great ceremony. Will would have liked it. Honor guard, firing of volley shots as a salute, flag draped over the empty coffin, presentation of the flag of the United States to his sister. Benji figured that every person in their building had shown up, red-eyed, sniffling, and dressed in black, including people he didn't even know; was that _Tony Stark_ and _Captain America?!_ No, it couldn't be…right?

Even the cleaning lady in her eighties came out, drying her eyes with a lacy handkerchief.

**_Boom._ **

Benji had spent nearly the entire ceremony sobbing into Ethan's shoulder, cringing with each deafening fire of a rifle; to give credit where credit is due, the dark-haired agent hadn't complained about the tear stains on his jacket, only holding the shaking tech while he cried. The IMF gave his sister—Natalie—a folded American flag; Benji had known Will had a sister, but he'd never met her. Now that he had, he wondered more and more about what kind of person Will had really been.

She was beautiful, the kind of beautiful that had men and women alike stopping in the middle of the street and getting hit by a taxi. She had a headful of tumbling red-gold waves that shone even on such a terrible day, and bright blue eyes that Benji couldn't help but notice were _not_ even the tiniest bit red, despite her just having lost her brother. She also had a fantastic body that would give Scarlett Johansson a run for her money; Benji had noticed Jane shooting her envious glances, and almost every man in attendance staring at her in awe, disbelief, and desire.

She'd accepted the flag and condolences with a stony face and a polite, "thank you," and maybe most people assumed she was being strong and didn't want to break down in front of all these people, but Benji recognized it for what it was: apathy. She didn't care. Well, Benji was in enough agony for both of them.

**_Boom._ **

He remembered other funerals he'd attended, those of his friends, coworkers, neighbors. Those had always been sad, but nothing like this. He felt so…empty inside. _It wasn't supposed to be like this._ Benji had thought of all the possibilities their relationship could take, but he'd never seen this. It hadn't mattered that they were IMF, risking life and limb on a regular basis; forget the missions to Columbia, Moldova, or some Middle Eastern nation, and forget all the firefights, IEDs, car chases, episodes of PTSD, and the deadly weapons stashed under pillows, chairs, couches, and everything in between. They were happy and in love, and it had seemed to him that they were untouchable; he'd never dreamed it might crumble in fire and pain.

He'd never considered that it might end like this.

Will was being hailed as a hero for all his accomplishments; the official report was that he'd been killed when the terrorists set off the bombs, still inside trying to get personnel to safety. It was a story that people would believe, because anyone that knew him would have never believed the truth: William Brandt killed himself in a suicide bombing that took the lives of nine other people, including a woman pregnant with twins and a teenage girl visiting her father at work.

**_Boom._ **

**_MI4 & A _ **

It was a great ceremony, which only added to his increasing mountain of guilt. Dark figures swarmed around the dark casket on a dark day. All stood in respect for the dead, even those who hadn't respected him in life. He was amazed to see how many people had come out to honor him.

A lone, unseen figure standing under a tree several yards away, Clint watched silently from behind mirrored lenses as the agents filed up to the coffin. It feels strange to watch his own funeral. In measured, precise steps, they reached it, stopped, and saluted. Several of their faces were screwed up in an effort to stop their tears; others let them fall freely. They lowered their hands slowly, turned, and marched away; Clint heard the bugle begin to play and the volley salute. Everything became muted as his eyes found his trio of friends: Ethan stood there, stoic and stiff, holding a sobbing Benji in his arms; Jane, standing at their side with an arm on Benji's shoulder.

He felt so empty inside; it wasn't supposed to be like this. He'd known he was heading to a cliff as soon as he realized how much he loved Benji Dunn, but he hadn't counted on having to jump off this soon. He'd hoped he'd have more time with him.

He also hadn't expected it to hurt this much.

He watched Natasha—no, Natalie—accept the folded flag from the Secretary; he was slightly miffed that she didn't look too heartbroken. However, she made up for that by wearing that scoop neck she knew he loved and, _damn,_ those jeans had to be illegal. It did worry him, more than slightly, that instead of wanting to jump her as soon as they met back up at the waiting transport, all he felt was grief. There was his (questionably) ex-girlfriend/fiancé, wearing clothes completely inappropriate for a funeral, especially that of her supposed brother, and drawing the eyes of every eligible (and taken) man in attendance—hell, even a few women were eyeing her. Yet, all he wanted was to run up and hold Benji, assure him that he was alright, that everything was going to be fine.

Except everything wasn't going to be fine.

With a heavy sigh and a heavy heart, he turned and walked away from the huddled masses, away from the tears, misery, and guilt-trip. He glanced back over his shoulder one last time, and saw the tortured face of his lover; he sighed again and he started walking. He continued into eternity and prayed to a God that he didn't believe in that Benji would be alright without him.

The empty coffin covered with the American flag was lowered into the gaping hole in the ground. Dirt cascaded atop William Brandt's casket.

Clint Barton walked away.


	8. One Month Later

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Benji sees ghosts and Clint lets himself break down

**ONE MONTH LATER:**

Benji swallowed, blinking away tears as he slid the key into the lock and turned. This was it, he was entering Will's apartment for the last time. Today was the day they cleaned it out for good so the super would stop threatening to dump it all in the alley; normally, an IMF clean up-crew would wipe the whole apartment, redact the entire person from the face of the planet, like they were never there. Benji couldn't bear the thought of that, so Ethan had called in a favor. Now, with Ethan and Jane as emotional support, Benji was facing his dead boyfriend's ghosts.

It was a nice place, with walls lined with towering bookshelves packed with novels and volumes of all sizes, but impersonal at best, even after more than a year of being lived in. It had been decorated by someone who went in for matching furniture sets and carefully chosen accent pieces; Benji used to joke that Will just ordered the entire IKEA catalogue. Now he felt bad about criticizing Will's sense of style. There was a very fine attention to detail, the kind that only came from crime scene crews or extremely OCD people.

Benji used to be able to put Will—he refused to think of him as anything different—safely in the second category, but now he wasn't so sure.

They went through the big items first—furniture and electronics, and that coffee maker Clint was so attached to. Most of the furniture could easily be sold or donated, but there was something that Benji wanted to keep; more specifically, that big, comfy leather club chair that he loved. He remembered how Will would sometimes sit on his lap when they watched a movie together.

Then they tackled the rooms with the least meaning—the kitchen and the bathroom. Old food, cleaning supplies, and the like were tossed; they had no sentimental value, things that could be bought anywhere. They were reminders that Will had been _real,_ not just a dream, not just a cover—a person.

Finally, they had to face the hard part, the real part.

There were framed pictures scattered around the apartment: two people in their late fifties, Will's parents. A young woman in her late teens—another sister? Cousin? Ex-girlfriend?—with dark hair and piercing green eyes. Two men in their thirties, brothers. A man and woman standing outside the Kremlin (ha ha)—Will with his arm around Natalie's waist, both grinning. Will and Benji, laughing and happy, in front of the Louvre, arms around each other and love clear on their faces.

Now Benji was wondering if any of it was real.

The three IMF agents spent the next hour packing books and trinkets into boxes labeled _BRANDT;_ the boxes would be taken to a storage locker, the same one where Ethan kept his arsenal, until they could go through them without crying. Ethan and Jane took the living room, Benji took the bedroom. This was something he needed to do. He pushed open the door and was flooded with the ever-so-familiar smells of Brandt's aftershave and something that was purely _Will._ Benji flashed back to the last time he was in this room.

He'd woken up with strong, wiry arms wrapped around him, holding him against the warm, reassuring body. He'd wanted nothing more than to stay there forever, curled up with Will in his bed; no terrorists, no one shooting them, no explosions. Now he'd never get that feeling back, except in dreams and memories.

_I love you._

_Please don't go._

The only answer he received was his own loneliness, but he hadn't really expected anything different. Benji knew Will would have thought him ridiculous to talk to thin air; the analyst, whoever he'd been, had never been one for the supernatural. He would have laughed at Benji, standing there and hoping that he'd get some sort of sign from his lover beyond the grave.

He struggled with the weight of the loss as he pulled out Will's clothes from his closet and dresser; the clothes were still warm, and they still smelled like their owner. His shoulders shook with a suppressed sob/laugh as he buried his face in a dress shirt; _I gave him this for Christmas. He wore it all the time, even though he hated it._ He couldn't admit to himself that Will was really gone. He kept waking up in the middle of the night, blindly, desperately reaching out across the covers, having forgotten Will wasn't there. He caught himself expecting him to be there in the morning, drinking his coffee—black—and doing a crossword puzzle or Sudoku; Benji kept turning around suddenly, thinking he'd catch a glimpse of Will if he only turned fast enough.

Sometimes, he could have sworn he _did._ But that had to be the light playing tricks, because even if this _was_ an elaborate undercover mission, Will would certainly never wear a jumper like _that_ and he wouldn't be caught dead in an honest-to-God leather jacket. It was just someone who looked a little like his dead lover, because Will _was_ dead. He was gone, and he wasn't coming back.

They identified the body.

He folded the clothes and laid them carefully in boxes; trembling hands and hot, blurred vision made it harder.

_"Are you sure about this? Are you sure you're ready?"_

_No, dammit, of course, I'm not ready, but I don't think I could survive losing him twice: once to himself and once to the IMF. He would rather we cleaned it out than them._

Benji was sure of that, because Will would have hated the idea of strangers rooting through his stuff and just throwing it all out. He would have wanted his friends to be the ones to erase his existence. The real estate agent he'd hired had assured him that she could have the place sold within a few weeks, given the current market and the in-demand location. He'd already signed all the forms he had to so she could just accept whatever offer she thought was best; he didn't want that responsibility, because that would feel too much like saying he could put a price on life after death.

It had hard enough as it was.

He hadn't only been pouring over the last message, he'd been carefully studying William Brandt's IMF file, looking for any clue to the truth behind the man. It had been Ethan, actually, who figured it out.

**_MI4 & A  
_ **

_Ethan ducked his head into Benji's space, a partially-open laptop in his hands. "Hey, Benji? There's something I need to show you." He paused, looking uncertain. "It's about Will."_

_Benji pushed aside his work to make room, swiping papers and bits of hardware right off his desk; finally, a breakthrough! He waited eagerly for Ethan to put his laptop in front of him. It was Will's file, something he'd been allegedly obsessing over as of late. William Francis Brandt, age 31, born in Waverly, Ohio to Harold and Edith Brandt (an accountant and primary school teacher respectively), two siblings. It had his address, private phone number, emergency contacts, all the usual information._

_Now, Benji had to wonder how much of that was true. Was whatever-his-name-was even thirty-one? Was he American, or had he just lost his accent? Where had he been born? Looking back on it, Will_ did _have a kind of ageless thing about him; he could be anywhere from his late twenties to his late forties._

_The only things Benji knew for sure were his height and weight. The nearly 200 pounds were pure muscle, though; Benji could say from personal, in-depth experience. He'd had all 195 draped over him after sex; hard, powerful muscles that were equally useful for brawling and fucking his boyfriend into the mattress…and couch, table, wall… Benji couldn't help but grin at the memories._

_It went on to describe everything Brandt had ever done that was pertinent to the IMF; his training records and graduation information, an overview of the Croatia Incident, his school records, commendations from employers and coworkers (everyone from the Secretary to the eighty-year-old cleaning lady who lived with her twenty-something cats), etc. If it were anyone else, Benji would feel like he was violating their privacy; Will was the exception to a lot of things._

_"Yes, Ethan, I've read it. Many times." The look on Ethan's face said the other man knew_ exactly _how many times Benji had read it._

_"I finally figured out what was strange about it."_

_Benji leaned forward, practically vibrating with anticipation. This was the first step to untangling the wadded mess that was William F. Brandt. "Yeah?"_

_"Don't you see any mistakes?" Ethan tapped the screen. Benji shook his head. "No," he said. "So tell me what's wrong with it?"_

_"Nothing!" Ethan said triumphantly, looking pleased with himself despite the topic. "There are no mistakes; and you don't see anything wrong with that?!"_

_Benji blinked._

_"There is_ nothing _wrong with his file;_ that _is what's wrong with it, if that makes any sense whatsoever. People make mistakes when they enter data—a lack of attention, errors in transcription, typos, etcetera. So, either a supercomputer wrote the entire thing, or someone is doing a very good job of making sure it's flawless._

_"There is no way this is really Will Brandt's file."_

**_MI4 & A  
_ **

He was going through Will's sock drawer when he found it: a small, black, velvety box. Frowning and befuddled, he tossed the last of the socks away and, with a sinking feeling of _knowing_ in his heart, he pulled it out. He shakily lowered himself onto the bed—it still smelled like Will, and if he concentrated, he could even pretend it was still warm—and stared. _Oh God, no._

Holding his breath, he flipped open the velvet box, already knowing what he would find—a platinum—no, titanium—band settled on the cushion, tiny gems glittering the midday sun that trickled in through the blinds. It was an eternity ring, Benji recognized dimly through the fresh haze of agony; it symbolized never-ending love. That was just like Will, to be both practical and romantic at the same time; a titanium ring would be hardier than softer metals. He wasn't bothering to wipe away his tears anymore, and they streamed down his face and fell onto his clothes, leaving little dark spots where they landed. His shoulders shook with suppressed sobs; Will was going to propose. There, in the one place he'd thought they were safe, Benji slipped the band onto his left ring finger, whispered, "Yes," into the empty air, and cried. _Yes. Oh God, Will, yes._

Alone in his room on the Helicarrier, Clint Barton watched the surveillance feed and let himself come undone.


	9. Staying Strong and Moving On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Natasha broods

It had been a year and a half since Will Brandt had been buried and Clint Barton had walked away, and if she didn't know better, Natasha would think that nothing had changed. Clint was back at SHIELD, and slowly but surely, he was earning back the trust of those he'd lost. He was joking and laughing—God, she'd missed that manic grin—and annoying the hell out of Coulson; but she knew that, his jabs and insubordination aside, Clint was secretly thrilled that Phil had survived the Loki attack. Losing his handler was more than the archer could have taken; he'd lost enough in Loki's wake as is.

Despite the heavy cloud of distrust that hung in the hearts of his comrades, Clint kept up his grin and did everything possible to help dissipate it.

He was joking with Tony and working with him to develop new equipment, the liaison between SHIELD and Stark Industries; he was Bruce's confidante, someone who knew what it was like to have a creature take your place, wreak havoc you can't possibly control, and then be blamed for actions you don't remember. He was sparring with Steve and upholding his promise to keep the practical jokes to a minimum; he and Natasha were telling dirty jokes in Russian and terrorizing the newer agents who hadn't yet learned that Hawkeye and the Widow were the big dogs, the top of the heap.

To anyone who didn't know better, Clint was his old self again: brash, forbidding, self-centered, and a disrespectful flashy bastard. Horror stories had been told of the archer, actual horror stories with photographic evidence and first-hand accounts to back them up; by the time new recruits got around to Hawkeye, they were quaking in their boots. He was back to his old antics of dropping out of airvents to scare people, lurking in the rafters and shooting at newer or lower-ranked agents, conveniently forgetting to turn in his paperwork, and being an all-around terror. He'd taken the news of Tasha and Alexei with surprising stride, congratulating them both, kissing her very non-platonically on the mouth, and warning her fiancée if he hurt her, Clint would help Natasha get her choice of revenge with great glee.

But Natasha saw through his façade, because she _knew_ him, better than anyone else ever could. She knew him better than she knew herself, and she knew it went the same for him. They balanced each other out, two sides of the same damaged coin; there could not truly be one without the other. They'd been thrown together from day one, when she was known only as "the very, _very_ scary redheaded Russian bombshell who keeps killing/losing her partners" and he was "the psycho, head case, demented Robin Hood with a nasty temper, an affinity for airvents, and no self-preservation instinct."

At first, she'd been more amused than anything with her new partner, much in the same way as someone humored by a small child or a puppy. It started when he'd snarked off about her being an ex-KGB agent and all the partners she'd "lost", and out of them all, he was the only one who hadn't made her want to castrate and then painfully kill them; see how beautiful she was with a knife buried between their ribs into their still-beating heart.

But they'd gotten along well enough, and soon they'd been inseparable. They bonded over war stories, scars, dirty jokes, and mutual sadistic glee derived from reaping mischief and terror. They were soon infamous among the ranks, actual horror stories spreading like wildfire until the mere threat of their name was enough to keep the most unruly trainees in line; they took turns taking pot-shots at junior (and, sometimes, senior) agents from the shadows, high places, and most often, the vents. Hell, she even let him get away with calling her Tasha and/or Nat.

Because she knew him so well, she could see that he was in agony. Every smile was to mask the way he wanted to cry, every laugh covered up the need to scream. He acted like everything was fine, but every punch he threw, every fight he picked, every trainee he broke was full of anger and pain; he was broken hearted. He'd really fallen hard for this Benji Dunn, and he was paying the price in full plus shipping and handling. Natasha didn't have the heart to tell him what Fury was planning.

She couldn't tell her best friend that all the pain had been for nothing.


	10. The Family That Wasn't Anymore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which both teams prep for a mission

He straightened his suit and examined himself in the mirror—not too bad, if he did say so himself. He had to look nice, of course, for this mission; it was, after all, his job to seduce the billionaire playboy. Apparently, the man was very into blonds—who knew? The team was being put up in the Waldorf Astoria, the hotel where the party was being held; they had a room with access to the airvents and, through that, the core computer room that would let them control the elevators, security feed, room access, etc. Once _their_ system was hooked up to the hotel's, they would have access and control to every interface in the hotel, including anything using the wifi. Their employers had spared no expense on their gear for this mission, which was a fair explanation of why their room looked like something out of a comic book.

_"Next time, I get to seduce the rich guy."_

He smiled sadly. He remembered that day in Mumbai, their first mission as a team. They'd been disavowed, on their own, chasing after ghosts with no resources and faulty equipment; it had been only with their wits, skills, and a heaping pile of good luck that they had saved the world from nuclear war. Not bad for a day's work, if he did say so himself. They'd done a lot of good in their time as a team; they'd toppled governments, brought down drug lords and crime bosses, and kept the world from falling into certain devastation. They'd ridden the adrenaline highs and (often stolen) Italian sports cars all the way to notoriety among the other agents.

Then it all turned to shit.

The young woman sitting on the bed snorted. "I recognize that look," she said. "You are thinking about _him._ " She did not clarify to whom she was referring; there was no need. It could only be one person. She looked stunning and if his heart didn't already belong to someone else—and she didn't scare the crap out of him—he'd totally take a shot. Hopefully, the other men at the party felt the same.

Last year—hell, even a few months ago—he would have snapped at anyone who dared bring _him_ up. But then he'd woken up one day and realized something; it didn't hurt as much. Of course, the memory of him and what they'd been was far from forgotten; the wound of losing all that just wasn't as fresh as it had been once. He could think about him without feeling like he was dying inside; he caught himself humming their song and he could laugh instead of cry. So he didn't growl at her when she mentioned it.

"Yeah," he sighed, "how could you tell?"

She smiled. "You had that look on your face; you know, the one that's part happy, part dumbstruck, and part mournful."

He shook his head and grinned regretfully. "I know the look, yeah."

The team had been put up in the hotel, with the sleeping arrangements separated by gender. His assignment was to seduce the rich guy—military contractor Vincent Devine—into giving him the access codes to his facility before the mole activated the binary fusion generator: a satellite system that could fire a beam of energy at Earth with pinpoint accuracy. It was basically a giant gun with the punch of a small nuclear weapon.

He cleared his throat and turned, grinning. "So, let's go over it again."

They would enter the party as guests; she and her "boyfriend" would gradually make their way over the bar, taking care of security on the way—the key was disabling them without being conspicuous; he'd get the attention of Devine and charm him into taking him upstairs for some privacy, where he would then extract the codes; their team leader would then proceed with the ass-kicking of the mole and the preventing of a nuclear catastrophe. Their infiltrator would keep an eye on everything, looking out for members of the mole's terrorist room or anyone else who raised a red flag in the system. She'd report any suspicious activity and be close enough to snag Devine if necessary.

The mission reminded him just a little too much of their first.

It was another twenty minutes before the party started, time he spent trying not to dwell on the fact that the last time they did something like this, it had been the start of a family—a family that wasn't anymore, wouldn't be ever again.


	11. Another

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Clint needs another drink

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You might want to read "Those Eyes of Hers" before you read this chapter, just so you're up to date on Laura

Clint downed the shot of vodka— _burns like hell, Russian, good stuff—_ for a little liquid courage and tossed the glass to the bartender, winking. "Thanks, cutie," he said, giving her a grin. She rolled her eyes. "Shove it Barton. Not my type."

He shrugged; it wasn't like he really wanted her. Sure, she'd grown up into a beautiful young woman, a far cry from the pretty-as-a-viper youth he'd once hated; she did them all proud, as surrogate daughter/niece/sister. In her time with them, she'd changed, evolved. Where once she'd been a sociopath, she was almost personable—almost. Anyway, his heart belonged to someone else and besides, her father scared the shit out of him, even more than she did. Instead of flirting with the other agent, he turned to scan the function hall. It was full with flashy outfits, expensive hookers, and enough push-up bras to make the whole city happy (or Tony. There aren't enough push-up bras in the world to do both).

Tony, with Natalie Rushman on his arm, was making the rounds—chatting up associates and gold-diggers, shamelessly flirting with everyone, with an omnipresent glass of wine in his hand. As they flounced through the crowd, shaking hands and charming for all they were worth, Natasha was slapping a sedative patch on each bodyguard and security officer they passed. It wouldn't be enough to knock them out, because they would be too obvious. They couldn't risk Devine becoming suspicious and fleeing; this was their only window of opportunity.

Which was what he told himself when he spotted another pair doing the same thing, a very familiar-looking pair. Ethan and Jane, doing the same routine as the mission in Mumbai; he heard his pulse in his ears. If _they_ were here, then logically…yeah, there he was, heading straight for the target. Clint felt his heart stutter in his chest, and he took a shuddering breath. After all this time, he'd thought he had a handle on his feelings. He was a spy, dammit, he could handle a little thing like heartbreak; apparently not, as it turned out, because his head was spinning, his face was flushing, and his heart was doing the conga in his chest.

He looked back to Laura and met her eyes, asking without speaking— _should we blow cover?_. She nodded, two hard ridges appearing under the skin of her forearm— _we should just kill them and get it over with_. He shook his head sharply, giving her a quick peace sign before making a fist— _don't you dare, kid. Keep 'em sheathed._ She scowled, clearly disappointed there wouldn't be a fight, but the ridges retreated and she relaxed her stance. They had a kind of silent language between them; he didn't know if it was because of their history or if he was just good with teenaged psychopaths.

Clint swallowed drily and dropped his head on the counter, holding up a finger and down the urge to puke.

"I think I need another drink."


	12. Devine Intervention

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which SHIELD and the IMF come face to face

Clint turned, ignoring Laura's snarky comment about breaking a leg (he suspected she meant that literally), and sought out his target.

Ah, there he was, chatting up Ethan. Clint groaned and braced himself. Oh, yeah, this was gonna be fun—like getting a root canal without the Novocain. He actually needed a push from the female wolverine before he mustered up the courage, and even then, it took some serious willpower to keep walking.

_Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me, f—_ "Why, hello, you must be the famous Vincent Devine."

He flashed his best smile at the trio, schooling his features into a mask of perfect stupidity—dumb blond card, works every time. Recognition, disbelief, and pain flashed in the IMF agent's eyes, emotions he had been experiencing not five minutes before. He registered a perfect expression of shock on his face ( _damn, wish I had a camera…wonder if JARVIS can pull a screenshot)_ ; he hid it within seconds, and if he hadn't been looking for it, he wouldn't have noticed. Devine certainly didn't.

Instead, the contractor smiles, clearly relieved at the interruption (especially by a cute, tall, blue-eyed blond who was obviously a _little_ tipsy, his weakness). He offered Clint his hand, which the archer took and gave a firm, subtle squeeze; it didn't go unnoticed by the other man, who eyed him with interest. "Yes, I must be," Devine said, turning his back on Ethan. "I must apologize; I don't recognize you. You are?"

Clint avoided his ex-teammate's eyes as he supplied Devine with his fake name. "Jeremy Renner. I have to admit, I'm a little new to this sort of scene; my friend dragged me along as his plus-one."

_Take the bait, dammit; don't know how much longer I can keep smiling like this without twitching._

Devine lit up with curiosity like the Fourth of July, intrigued by this self-declared neophyte of high society; so was the peanut gallery (read: nosy IMF agent who was _this_ close to blowing his cover). "Would that be a boyfriend or…" He let the question hang, his intent clear.

"Jeremy" laughed awkwardly. "I'm not sure if that's your business, Mr. Devine." At the obvious deflation of the man's shoulders, Clint decided to give him a break. "We're not really connecting anymore, to tell the truth." _Yeah, right, and I'm a flying monkey…never mind._ "I think he only brought me because he hoped to pawn me off to someone else."

Devine's smile widened, showing off pearly whites. Clint had to admit, he _was_ kind of handsome; if the circumstances had been different, and he wasn't pointlessly in love, the flirting could have been real. A little scruffy looking, with unruly black hair that he hadn't even tried to tame for the event, mischievous blue eyes, freckles, a small scar above his eyebrow; Clint suspected that he'd be great friends with Tony and Bruce. With any luck, the guy would forgive him for the subterfuge later.

Course, luck had never really been on Clint's side. Hence, the evil eye he was getting from Ethan; apparently, he'd gotten past the shock and disbelief stage and gone straight to the fury. Oh yes, Clint, or rather, Will was definitely on Ethan Hunt's shit list—probably at the very top, in red Sharpie and circled. Experience and foreknowledge told him that that was not a healthy place to be. When Devine turned to wave over a waiter, Clint gave the IMF agent a dirty look and mimed/mouthed: _get lost, Hunt, now. Go._ Ethan scowled and returned with something Clint deciphered as: _you fucker, you're supposed to be dead. How—You—When I get my hands on you…_ Well, there was a lot of cussing and threatening; the archer got the gave him a sunny smile that must have spiked Ethan's blood pressure to perilous levels just before Devine turned back around.

"Well, that is most certainly his loss, Mr. Renner," Devine said, drawing Clint's attention back to him. "And please," he smiled charmingly and offered him a glass of champagne, "call me Vince."


	13. Abort, Abort!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a mission is aborted, Ethan sees red, and gets his ass kicked in three seconds flat

That mother _fucker!_ Ethan could actually feel his blood pressure rising every second he stood there, examining "Jeremy"; he didn't know if he wanted to hug the man tight or throttle him. Almost two years of thinking he was dead and gone, and the bastard has the nerve to _grin_ like it's Christmas! On one hand, Ethan was relieved and thrilled that Will was alive; the younger man was like a brother to him, and Benji had been miserable without him.

On the other, Ethan _really_ wanted to kill the cheeky bastard for all the pain he'd put them through, especially Benji! It was taking all of his will power not to sock the guy right in his smug grin. After all that had happened, Will was clearly enjoying this, as if was just a big game to him.

The man standing before him was smaller than Ethan remembered—muscles less pronounced, thinner—and there was something about him that set Ethan's spidey sense a'tingling, something that made him seem more lethal than ever. Maybe it was the way he was standing—feet spread apart evenly, shoulders back and spine straight, head tilted up and a smirk paying at the edges of his lips, barely restrained. It was as if he was laughing at Ethan and relishing his discomfort.

Ethan managed to excuse himself civilly, aware that Devine's interest had been clearly rerouted with little effort on Will's part. The target acknowledged his departure distantly, muttering something before taking up his flirting again; it really hit a nerve with Ethan how natural the banter between them seemed, and the ease with which Will flirted back, as if his relationship with Benji meant nothing. It was with a generous amount of effort and willpower that Ethan managed to keep from throwing the mission and indulging his bloodlust. He could feel Will's eyes following him as he walked away.

He lifted a shaking hand to his comm and cleared his throat, drawing the attention of his teammates. _Guys, we need to abort. I repeat: abort the mission._

His ears were filled with a jumble of protests and questions that he barely registered over the ringing. He waited for them to quiet down. How did he tell them? _Forget seducing him, Benji, this strategy isn't going to work. Someone beat us to it. _ How did he tell _Benji_? There couldn't be proper protocol for telling your best friend that his dead boyfriend's alive and trying to seduce the rich guy; maybe it was just like ripping off a Band-Aid.

 _Here goes everything._ He sucked in a breath, prepping himself for the fallout. _Benji,_ Will _is here,_ alive _, and I'm willing to bet that he didn't come alone. Whatever his deal is, he's doing the job you were going to do, seducing Devine._ He could see Benji across the room, searching the crowd for Brandt; he knew the instant Benji spotted him. He could see it on his face.

 _We have to regroup._ He stepped into the empty elevator, pulling his tie off; he hated the damn things, like nooses people wore voluntarily. _Meet you back at the room. _ He signed off, not giving them an opportunity to object; he leaned back against the elevator wall and let his head thunk against it.

"Ahem."

He made the mistake of looking up. A series of unfortunate events followed in the next three seconds.

**One.**

A pair of bright green eyes filled his vision. A primal snarl filled the compartment.

**Two.**

He reached for the gun hidden beneath his jacket.

**Three.**

_Snickt._

_BANG!_

_Thud._


	14. Captured and Betrayed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Benji faces some unwelcome realizations

The last thing Benji remembered before he blacked out was the bartender. She couldn't have been more than twenty, if that—petite, pretty, green eyes—and he knew the moment he laid eyes on her that life as he knew it was over. Because somehow, he doubted the hotel's bartender usually carried a high tech blaster…currently aimed at his head. He remembered he started to say something, ask her who she was or why she was going to shoot him, maybe even ask her to let him go; he wasn't sure, and it didn't matter, because he never got the chance to ask. As soon as he opened his mouth, something hit him in the back of the head and the world went dark.

The world was still dark when he woke up, but it was a different kind of dark. His addled brain didn't understand at first, and before it understood, it panicked. When his eyes flickered open and met with nothing, he only reacted; he jerked, hard, and learned that he was bound to whatever he was sitting on—not rope, but something harder, tougher. Whatever it was, it bit into his limbs, cutting off circulation. He wondered how long he'd been in this position, and how long he'd been unconscious in general; he didn't know if it was day or night—he wasn't hooded, so it had to be a blindfold.

Then came the worry for his friends.

Where were they? Were they alright—or even alive? He had no idea who was responsible for this, except that whoever they were, they employed teenage assassins and had the same intel as IMF.

Then the rest of his memories came back and he felt reality crashing down around him. First came the joy of knowing his love wasn't dead—if he was a religious man, he would thank God his prayers had been answered. The pain and sorrow followed quickly.

_Will is alive._

_Will is alive and working against us._


	15. Reality Bites When It Isn't

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Ethan Hunt meets Nick Fury, who enjoys his job way too much

Ethan groaned as he came to; he felt worse than he had when he'd been taken by Davian in China. His head was pounding like a jackhammer on speed, his tongue felt think and fuzzy in his mouth—which tasted like something died in it, for that matter—and his whole body ached. It was only later that he'd place a name to the feeling; it was like a hangover on steroids. He groaned again, and tried to focus, blocking out all the unpleasant crap. He was an IMF agent, and part of his job was to be trained for every situation. He could handle interrogations and torture; he wouldn't spill secrets. What he needed to do now was figure out where he was, who had him, what they wanted, and what happened to his team.

He knew it was pointless before he tried, but he tested his restraints anyway. They were solid, and he couldn't break them without doing serious damage to his wrists or ankles. He decided not to try. He was blindfolded, not hooded; he couldn't see his surroundings, but he could focus his other senses and get a decent idea from them.

He smelled antiseptic, bleach, gasoline, sweat, smoke, metal, and, oddly, peppermint—like chewing gum or toothpaste. He thought he was still wearing the same clothes, but they felt different, as if he'd been strip-searched and then redressed; his weapons were all gone. He guessed that the hard material under his feet was concrete, or some kind of stone; it was harder than wood or tile. The temperature was a little on the chilly side; that didn't help him narrow down location, he could hear the air conditioning.

He didn't know how long he sat there—he'd tried counting, but lost track after five minutes—but eventually there was the pneumatic _hiss_ of a door sliding open. He could hear footsteps, light breathing, paper shuffling and a chair screeching against the floor. He waits all of five seconds before demanding, "What the hell is going on?"

The newcomer chuckled—man, mid to late-forties, African American. "Ethan Hunt, senior field operations operative for the Impossible Missions Force. Born August 18th, 1964 in Madison, Wisconsin. Raised by mother, Margaret Hunt, and paternal uncle, Donald Hunt." He rattled off a brief but incredibly detailed account of Ethan's life, including his time with the IMF, Julia, and Croatia, with one difference. "Recruited by the terrorist organization the Ten Rings during his stint as an instructor; as a double agent, relayed national secrets and mission statistics, actions which led to the deaths of Nyah Nordoff-Hall, Lindsey Farris, Trevor Hanaway, and William Brandt."

The man paused.

"Do you deny any of this to be true?"

"What the fuck is this?" It wasn't like any interrogation he'd ever experienced; them telling him what he'd done, especially what he most certainly _hadn't_ done. "I'm not a double agent; what the hell?! Who the hell are you, where am I, where is my team?" It was more of a demand than a request, and his interrogator seemed to know this. He was walking now, circling Ethan; Ethan could feel his eyes boring into him.

"Mr. Hunt, because of your actions, the Ten Rings destroyed Washington D.C. using the Binary Fusion Generator. You have been disavowed by the IMF, and convicted of treason against the United States of America and the Impossible Missions Force, terrorism on U.S. soil, and the murder of Vincent Devine. Jane Carter was executed by firing squad twenty minutes ago; Zhen Lei and Benjamin Dunn have been deported to their respective countries for sentencing. She is facing the death penalty; he will likely receive life in prison. You won't be that lucky. Any questions?"

Ethan barely heard him. _Jane, dead? Zhen and Benji deported? Disavowed and D.C destroyed?_

_Who the hell am I dealing with?_

_What's true and what's a lie?_


	16. Some 'Splainin' To Do

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hunt is loose in SHIELD, and Laura kicks his ass with pleasure

Ethan was left to mull over his interrogator's words, alone in the cold room. His body ached as the drug took its sweet time leaving his system; his head was heavy and his thoughts slow, but he was coherent. He almost wished he wasn't.

_Jane is dead._

_Zhen Lei and Benji have been deported._

_Will is alive and I have no idea how, why, where he is, and where his loyalties lie._

_We have all been disavowed, D.C. has been destroyed, and I can assume that I am being held by hostiles, possibly government._

He wondered how the mission had gone so wrong. They were supposed to stop the attack, not ensure it. Whatever this was about, Will was at the center of it all, Ethan was sure. He couldn't have faked his death alone; the IMF forensic unit confirmed a DNA match with the blackened, burnt body found at the origin of the blast. Will wouldn't have had the resources to fake something so elaborate on his own, which meant he had powerful, influential friends, people to either provide a genetically identical body or manipulate the results _within_ the IMF.

Whatever the case, Ethan wasn't just going to sit and wait for his execution.

It took him several minutes of straining, twisting, pulling, wrenching, and most of all, praying to get out of the restraints, and his troubles left him with chafed, bloody wrists and a screaming shoulder. But he was loose—not free, yet. He ripped off his blindfold and freed his legs, and then looked around him. He was in a windowless room—blank white walls, stone floor, a door with no handle. There was a metal table—probably nailed to the ground—with his wallet, watch, and weapons laid out on a tray, each tagged with a numbered piece of tape. Security cameras mounted in each corner of the ceiling, all focused on the chair Ethan had been bound to; an airvent in the corner, maybe large enough for him.

He figured he had about a minute before the whole of whoever came crashing down on him, so he had to work fast. He tested the chair—bolted to the floor—but the table wasn't, like he'd presumed. He reclaimed his stuff before shoving the table under the vent; he winced at the screech of metal against concrete, like nails on a chalkboard.

He could hear heavy footsteps approaching fast, shouting and barking orders. He used the small blade hidden in his wallet to unscrew the vent cover and jiggle it open. He let it drop, where it connected with the table with a harsh _clang,_ and boosted himself up into the air conditioning system. It was a cramped fit, but not too tight; he could crawl unimpeded, all he needed. Below, he could hear the room being breached, and he started moving.

He wasn't looking for anywhere in particular, but it only took a few turns before he looked through another vent and found a familiar face. Blood pounded in his ears and his vision went red, and all he could think was… _that bitch._ Wavy hair, bright as fire under the fluorescent lighting, and a face he would never forget. The last time he saw her was at Will's funeral, and now he realized that it hadn't been the first time. The first time he encountered her was in Budapest five years ago, when she tried to kill him.

Will's sister Natalie.

The Black Widow.

In one of his famous split-second, often suicidal decisions, Hunt kicked out the vent cover and dropped onto the table in front of her.

"You," he said, "have some 'splainin' to do."

Someone cleared their throat behind him, and he turned, coming eye to eye with a very familiar, very peeved-looking brunette. For the second time in as many weeks, Ethan Hunt was knocked on his ass in three seconds flat.


	17. Facing The Music, Baby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Exactly what it says on the tin

As he left Coulson's office, Clint laughed at Natasha's quip, the latest in a legacy of dirty jokes and inappropriate wisecracks, often and usually in Russian. With his cover basically blown and his IMF team being held by SHIELD, he was in a surprisingly—albeit stressed beyond all belief—good mood, enough to actually grin when the alarms went off. It had been his idea to take the bad cop/terrorist angle with Ethan; the other IMF members were being held in detention, guarded by a few agents but otherwise unhurt—thoroughly pissed off, but unhurt. He felt bad about the story they told Hunt, but not enough to take it back. He owed Hunt for all the orders.

Clint'd been expecting him to break for a while, and now that the hallways were flooded with red light and the blaring alarm had decided to abuse his eardrums, he was in a better mood than he'd been in days.

He would admit, when he confronted the other man at the hotel three days previous, he'd had a minor (coughbullshitcough) panic attack. But, after he'd downed several more cups of coffee than healthy, burned an hour in the shooting range, and terrorized a group of trainees until several pissed themselves, he felt like he could actually face his ex-colleagues without laughing like a demented lunatic…which he wasn't, and he had the shrink's acquittal to prove it. He wasn't a demented lunatic, he was a _functioning_ lunatic.

It was little more than a nuance, but it was a very important nuance.

He danced around the rushing agents, trying very hard not to cackle maniacally as he observed the chaos. This base was staffed mostly by recruits who'd been recently approved for agent status; they were a bunch of greenhorns, nearly all of them trained by Hawkeye. It had also been his idea to remember to forget to inform the troops about the setup. Call it their final exam; it wasn't like they didn't think he was the devil incarnate already.

So he simply stood back and watched his work unravel with unadulterated glee that lasted about as long as it took to reach the observation room in the detainment wing. Captain Stars-And-Stripes was on monitor duty, attempting to play minesweeper to pass the time. He was failing. Clint laughed as the supersoldier lost another game with an ill-fated click of his mouse. "Way to go, Cap," he said, leaning over Steve's shoulder, "but I'm pretty sure you're supposed to _avoid_ setting off the bombs."

Steve scowled at him. "I know that, Barton! This isn't as easy as it looks." Poor Captain America. With Banner and Stark's help, he was slowly becoming more familiar with modern technology— _very_ slowly. No matter what he did or how much he learned, he would always be a man of the forties. Barton probably wasn't helping; he couldn't help it, he was a prankster and the Cap was just too easy a target. He and Thor were Clint's favorite targets when he got bored of frightening his recruits.

Instead of teasing the good captain more, Clint turned his attention to the screens in front of them. Yesterday, Zhen, Will, and Jane had been moved to the same room, and they'd spent the entire time attempting to formulate an escape plan without alerting their guards, which basically meant a series of obscure eye movements and mouthed words.

Clint wasn't too worried about them making any progress.

He sighed and leaned against the captain, who was, by now, familiar with being used as furniture by Clint and Natasha. It was one of those odd quirks that made the Avengers a family, like knowing automatically when someone had had a bad day and needed cheering up, or whose turn it was to make sure Tony and Banner didn't work themselves to death and saw daylight at least once a month, or when Natasha was on her period and prepared to disembowel anyone in a hundred foot radius.

"So," Clint said, "they make any moves yet?" If Steve hadn't known that Clint was wound up tighter than Coulson, he might've mistaken the blasé in the archer's voice for indifference. But he knew, and so he knew exactly what it was—anxiety. The supersoldier shook his head. "No, not unless you count trying to use sign language with their hands ties behind their backs."

Clint would hand it to the IMF, they turned out creative agents. Personally, he would've talked his head off, taunting and mocking until the guard got in his face; it would be a simple matter to knock the guard out, smash the chair, eliminate the others with an elbow to the ribs and a chair leg to the jugular, snap the other one's neck with a quick twist…Clint shook his head. He used to be able to consciously shift between Assassin-Clint—cold, calculating, capable—and Regular-Clint—easygoing, goofy, high on life. Now, it was different. Sometimes, it was hard to turn off the assassin part of his brain, the Clint that was always calculating the greatest risks, the best and worst solutions, the quickest way to complete the mission and end the target.

Sometimes, it was impossible, and what scared him the most was that he was having a tough time telling the difference anymore.

How long before there wasn't a difference?

So instead of dwelling on that, he handed Steve his coffee and told him to get scarce; then he told the guards to separate the three IMF agents, then get lost themselves. This was something he had to do alone. Less than ten minutes later, Clint was standing at the door to Cell 5C—first up, Zhen Lei, next Jane Carter. Because, yeah, he wasn't too big and proud to admit that he was avoiding facing his (possibly ex, definitely furious) boyfriend for as long as humanly possible. With a deep breath to steel himself, he pushed open the door. He met the Chinese woman's eyes and gave her the bastard child of a smirk and a smile.

"Agent Lei, I—"

_"Bastard!"_

Oh yeah, this was gonna be loads of fun. Not.


	18. Hindsight is 20/20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Benji meets Agent Coulson and connects the dots

Benji knew he should feel fury or sorrow for the betrayal, but all he felt was numb. Questions spun about in his head like Dorothy's house caught in the tornado, and he barely registered it when the door opened and someone entered. He didn't even look up; soldiers had been coming and going constantly the last few days, faceless men and women in unmarked uniforms, speaking only to each other and even then in short, sharp tones. They barely gave him a second glance, only paying him the least bit attention when they threatened him or barked orders at him. They were professionals, and Benji Dunn was nothing to them; he wasn't even there.

So he didn't bother glancing at this new arrival's face, not even when they sat down across from him. What did it matter if the soldier was white or Hispanic, blond or brunet, male or female? It didn't. To Benji, only one thing mattered right then: the ring on his finger. He'd been twisting it around since they untied his hands; he was still handcuffed, but he was getting the feeling that this was more of a standard government detainment than Gitmo. He could almost convince himself of that, except these guys had no insignia.

A ring like this was supposed to symbolize love and trust between partners.

Benji wasn't so sure. Yeah, he loved Will, even after two years of mourning and everything that had happened in the past week. But he didn't know if he would ever trust him again. Benji had no idea what was the truth anymore, or what was a lie. Had Will ever loved him, or had that been an act? God, the very thought of that made Benji's heart ache, almost as badly as it had when Will had "died." Seeing him at the party, flirting like that with Devine—Benji had gotten the sudden, near-uncontrollable urge to strangle the billionaire and then ruin him financially.

He'd only gotten a brief look at Will from a distance, but he could tell that the man at the party had not been the man he'd fallen in love with; there was something _wrong_ with him. Benji wasn't sure what it was exactly, but it was there. He was different.

Or maybe, just maybe, Benji had just never known the real him. With a week in and out of solitary, the technician had had a lot of time to think, more than he needed; and all he could think of was Will. His little habits, his favorites, the way he looked right after sex, that glimmer in his eye that was only for Benji—how much of it was the real Will and how much of it was an act?

Was the ring an act, just another facet to the façade? Benji wanted so badly to believe that the love and life they'd shared was genuine, and even that they could have it again; he just didn't want to get his hopes up too much. Until he found out for certain…

"I see you're wearing the ring."

Benji looked up at the soldier for the first time since his entrance. This wasn't a low-level guy, even Benji could tell that—no grunt wore a suit like that, nor did they wear a high-tech looking earpiece and a genuine Rolex. This guy was in his mid-thirties, with a receding headline and tired eyes; Benji was reminded of this agent at the IMF, a real solemn guy who'd seen enough to be surprised by nothing and had a wicked, dry sense of humor.

The man nodded towards Benji's hands. "The ring—I remember it. I spent two weeks listening to him whine about it." He snorted and shook his head, as if in disbelief. "I'm going to tell you a little secret, Mr. Dunn. I've seen him almost married twice before to two different women, both incredible and scary ladies, and never before had he been so nervous as when he was thinking about you." He paused, simply staring at Benji, who got the impression that he'd just been X-rayed more thoroughly than in any hospital.

"I'm Agent Phil Coulson with the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement, and Logistics Division—SHIELD for short. I'd like to talk to you about the man you know as William Brandt."

Something tickled in Benji's memory; something that Will had said once, when they'd been talking about their childhoods. It hadn't seemed important at the time, just kind of weird, which was why Benji remembered it so well. _"My uncle Phil, he kinda raised Natalie and me, like a shield."_

Now he was connecting the dots, because God knows, hindsight as always 20/20. Phil, Natalie, shield…he'd been telling Benji the truth the only way he could. He was a _SHIELD_ agent; Agent _Phil_ Coulson was probably his handler or his superior; his sister _Natalie_ was his partner. That meant three things:

[A] He and his friends were not being held by a hostile force like previously believed, but moderately friendly forces

[B] Will had never wanted to lie to him

and [C, and most importantly] Will was and had always been one of the good guys.

Benji blinked and realized that Coulson was waiting for him to say something.

"I want to know the truth."


	19. You and Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Benji and Clint come face to face, a story is told, and a choice is made

"I want to know the truth."

Coulson nodded and cleared his throat. "That can be arranged. JARVIS?" Benji looked around, but they were alone in the room.

" _Yes, Agent Coulson?"_ It was like the voice of God, coming from thin air; Benji jumped before he realized it was coming from speakers. Coulson smiled for a moment before he hid it. "Contact Hawkeye and have him report here immediately." _Hawkeye…_

_"He's on his way."_

It was nearly five minutes later, a time spent in uncomfortable silence, when the door slid open and a man dressed in what Benji realized must have been standard SHIELD gear stepped in. Benji's breath caught in his throat and he had to blink away tears before they escaped.

He was leaner than Benji remembered, less muscled and more wiry, but that could have just been the way he was dressed; they did say that black was slimming. His hair was longer, and Benji thought distantly that he could use a haircut. At first glance, Benji couldn't see anything but the differences—the quiver of arrows strapped to his back and the gun on his hip, the glint of something dangerous in his eyes, the sardonic smirk, the way he held himself. But the longer he stared open-mouthed at Will, all those differences changed into familiarities. The glint in his eyes turned into the good-natured wit that Benji knew so well; the smirk became less condescending and more _ha-ha, I knew something you don't_ , something he remembered; his military stance became more loose and relaxed.

He gave Benji a crooked, guilty, relieved grin—how a smile managed to be all those things at once, he'd never know—and said, "Hey, Benji."

Coulson cleared his throat and Will turned that smile on the agent. "Sir?" Coulson rolled his eyes and stood up, and gave Will what Benji took to be a meaningful look. "You have twenty minutes. Don't make me regret it."

Will gave him a jaunty little salute that made Benji grin despite his warring emotions. "No promises, sir."

Coulson rolled his eyes and Benji got the impression that the administrative agent spent a lot of his time putting up with Will. When the door slid closed behind Coulson, the smile slipped from Will's face and he slumped into the seat, sighing heavily and dragging his hands over his face.

"Alright, where do you want me to start?" He sounded tired, and Benji noticed the dark circles under the man's eyes. He looked exhausted; Benji could see the tension in his shoulders and the small, almost imperceptible shaking of his hands. Benji wondered when the SHIELD agent had last slept, and he felt the urge to drag the man to the nearest bed and order him a minimum eight hours' rest before they took this any further; he smiled at the memory of what Will had called his 'mother hen mode.'

"…Who are you really?"

Because that was the most important question at the moment. Benji wanted to know _who_ he was, the man he was hopelessly in love with—the whys could come later. Will was silent for several long, empty seconds filled only by their breathing and the distant hum of the air conditioning; it was rather chilly in the room, he wondered how Will could not be cold.

"…Clint Barton," he said finally, not looking Benji in the eye. "I'm an agent of SHIELD. They picked me up when I was in my early twenties, working as a freelance assassin and mercenary. I was given a choice: live as an agent, or die as a criminal. It wasn't a hard choice." He gave a short laugh. "Codename: Hawkeye. Division: Avengers. Certified nut job, professional pain in the ass, and expert lurker." He grinned weakly, sounding a little too proud of that last part.

 _Clint Barton._ Benji rolled the name around his head. Now that he knew that _his_ name wasn't Will Brandt, Benji decided that _he_ looked like a Clint Barton.

"What do you do? I mean, beside spy on your friends." Benji tried not to sound too bitter. Judging from Clint's wince, he wasn't quite successful. The other band cleared his throat, looking uncomfortable. _Yeah, you and me both, love._

"I'm an assassin, soldier, field agent, covert operative, and occasionally, a babysitter." He caught Benji's look and shook his head, grinning crookedly. "My partner is a psychotic teenaged serial killer. Long story." _I'll bet._

"If you're such a big shot here, why were you at the IMF?" Benji had to know. He had to know what was so important that it was worth ripping his life in half.

"I was placed at the IMF because the Director had reason to suspect that there were HYDRA agents planted high up in the ranks; he was right, by the way, if it makes any difference. At the time, I'd just come out of the Loki incident, and I'll admit, I wasn't in great shape. Apparently, being mind-jacked, used as a puppet for evil against my world and my friends, and under the influence of mind control, killing several fellow SHEILD agents was grounds enough for the head shrinkers to declare me mentally unstable. They decided to the best was to keep me from causing trouble while I recuperated was by dropping me into a whole new identity, taken from a man I killed a year previous."

He smiled ruefully. "In my defense, at the time, I didn't know that Will Brandt was an IMF agent, one of the good guys. All I saw was a guy aiming a gun at my people. I didn't think twice; I put two bullets in his skull and three more in his chest, and they never found the body. The Director pulled some strings and had me take over his identity; he was still in the IMF database as an active agent."

His smile disappeared. "Benji, I wouldn't blame you if you never want to see me again. You have no idea what I've done, and I'm glad for that. If you knew…" He shook his head and looked at the technician with more pain in his eyes than Benji had ever seen before. "I wasn't given a choice, Benji, I want you to know that. I was called back to SHIELD for an Avengers mission, and they decided that I'd spent enough time on the sidelines; Will Brandt had to die a second and final time for Clint Barton to get back to work.

"The world is changing around us. Aliens, superheroes, mutants—at this point, I wonder every day if anything can surprise me anymore. Every day, I'm proved wrong, and I'm glad. It's nothing I was ever trained for, but I have responsibilities that extend far beyond and above the IMF, and I had to deal with them head on. I wanted to tell you the truth, but I'll admit it, I was a coward. I've always been a coward. I was terrified that if I told you who I was, you'd turn me in, or worse, stop loving me."

"How you possibly think that? Did you really think so little of me that you thought I'd turn on you?" he snapped, and got a little jolt of pleasure when Clint flinched. Guilt followed immediately. He'd hurt the man he loved—yes, he'd decided, he still loved him—and felt glad. The words had come out more venomous than he'd meant or expected, and they'd both looked surprised at his vehemence.

"I…no, it wasn't you, Benji. I didn't want to risk losing one of only people in my life that mattered. I have no regrets for what happened. The IMF and the team—Ethan, Jane, you—gave me a second chance when you didn't even know it. For a long time, I was furious with the Director. I hated the thought that he'd washed his hands of me; what I hated more was the knowledge that he was right to do so. SHIELD had given me a purpose when I had none, and they do good work; I loved the thought that I could do good and still get the high that comes with adrenaline and a mission completed. He'd trusted me to be the best of them, and I fell so, so far. I couldn't stand the thought of what you'd think of me when you knew the truth of me."

Clint fell silent, and after several long seconds, Benji realized that he wasn't going to say anything else. It was his move. The only problem was, he didn't know what move to make. Did he forgive Clint for the wrongs he'd done? Could he let him back into his life after the hell he'd been him through? He still loved him, so much that his heart ached in his chest, but he didn't know if things could ever be the same. Almost as soon as he asked himself the questions, he knew the answer. For better or for worse…


	20. Too Little, Too Late

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One Month Later...or, in which the author takes the easy way out

**ONE MONTH LATER:**

"Knock-knock."

Clint looked up from his desk and grinned at the figure leaning against his doorway. "Hey, Tash, what's up?" He scanned her from head to toe, letting his eyes linger unabashedly on her generous chest. "Don't you look gorgeous."

She snorted and cocked her hip to the side. "I bet."

Tony had insisted that Natasha allow him to pay for a custom dress, and considering he spilt red wine on her white wedding dress, she'd had no qualms agreeing. And _damn,_ was that the right choice! Her dress was dark blue silk dotted with tiny iridescent stones; Clint was willing to bet they were genuine diamonds, from the smug look on Stark's face and the astonished one on Pepper's when she'd seen the bill. Still, even Pepper would have to admit that it was worth every grand, because when the Black Widow moved, the jewels glittered and sparkled, and it wasn't a stretch to believe that she was wearing the stars themselves. Her strappy black stilettos put her eye to eye with Clint, and he recalled that he'd given her the silver, arachnid-shaped pendant on the delicate chain that rest on her chest, and the matching earrings. When she moved a hand to brush back her hair, his eye caught on her hand; yes, she was wearing her wedding ring.

She was also wearing the ring he'd given her once upon a time, a thin band of unadorned titanium, practical and perfectly her; he'd known that she'd kept it after they'd broken off the engagement, but after she'd married Alexei, he hadn't expected to see it again. The fact that she was wearing it meant more to him than the dressing up and playing nice with the guests—although, he was grateful for those, too. Of course, she'd made him agree to the same terms when _she_ got married.

_Married._

It was hard to think that tomorrow, he would wake up in some currently undisclosed location— _damn you, Fury—_ with his husband in his arms, especially after the events of the past two years. There had been a time when he'd honestly believed that he was doomed to die a heartsick bachelor; how wrong he'd been. He'd loved and lost two women in his life—first Bobbi and then Natasha—and for a long time, he wondered what he'd done wrong. Then he met Benji and knew that he never would have been able to spend the rest of his life married to either of them. They would always been his friends—his best of friends, his partners that he could always depend on for anything—but marriage to either woman would have only ended badly. If he'd believed in fate or destiny, he would have thought that he and Benji were simply meant to be; they'd been through the fire and only grown stronger.

He was getting married to Benjamin Dunn in—he checked the clock—two hours. Two hours? What was Tasha doing dressed up already when there was that much longer? Even Clint wasn't in his tux yet. There was a niggling feeling he had that he was missing something really important.

His eyes drifted to the Post-It note stuck to his desk lamp: _fix clock, running slow, approx. 2½ hr._ He blinked at it once, twice, three times before the meaning sank in.

_Oh shit._

Natasha grinned, because naturally, she could read his mind.

"Did I forget to mention, Barton?"

 _Benji's gonna kill me. Scratch that;_ Ethan _'s gonna kill me._

"You're late to your own wedding."


	21. A Fond Farewell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the author was berated by angry readers on ff.net and decided to tell the rest of the story in reverse
> 
> Or
> 
> In which Ethan narrowly avoids getting shanked and needs a drink

_Clint fell silent, and after several long seconds, Benji realized that he wasn't going to say anything else. It was his move. The only problem was, he didn't know what move to make. Did he forgive Clint for the wrongs he'd done? Could he let him back into his life after the hell he'd been him through? He still loved him, so much that his heart ached in his chest, but he didn't know if things could ever be the same. Almost as soon as he asked himself the questions, he knew the answer. For better or for worse…_

Benji exhaled heavily and looked Clint straight in the eyes.

"Well, alright."

_Wait, what?_

Clint blinked and after a few seconds, realized his mouth was hanging open. He closed it. Had Benji really said what Clint thought he said?

"Wait, what?"

Benji smiled, and while it was a doleful, sad smile, it was definitely a smile. "I said alright. I understand why you did what you did, and I understand why you had to lie. I think you're an absolute moron for ever thinking I would hate you, but I get it." His expression sobered. "But if you ever lie to me like that again, I'll let Ethan kill you."

Clint cracked a crooked grin. "If I do, I'll ask him to put me out of my misery," he said, and someone who didn't know the brevity of the situation could have mistaken his tone for joking; far from it, he was deadly serious.

With hardened eyes and lips pressed in a line, Benji studied the man sitting across from him. Clint tried not to fidget; he wasn't great at sitting still if he didn't have to. Finally, Benji nodded. "Alright then." He smiled. "Now, have you told anyone else yet?"

Clint winced; oh yeah, he'd faced Zhen and Jane, and he was lucky they'd been handcuffed to the table or he'd have the bruises and broken nose to prove it. "Yeah, I talked to Zhen and Jane, both of whom were ready to tear my head off; actually, Jane tried. Zhen just swore at me in Chinese. Ethan is currently helping me to prove a point." He smirked and added, "Not that he knows it, of course. He thinks he escaped our custody, has no idea he's part of a training exercise."

Natasha chose that moment to call him, and he held up a hand as he tapped the earbud to pick it up. "What is it? I'm kinda in the middle of something, in case you've forgotten." He rolled his eyes at Benji and mouthed, _Sorry._

_"Sorry to interrupt your kissing ass, but we have a problem."_

He straightened, eyes narrowing. If Natasha considered it enough of a problem to call him now, it was urgent. "Define 'problem.'"

_"Ethan Hunt dropped in, quite literally, on Laura and I just after you left."_

He groaned, closing his eyes. "You have _got_ to be kidding me!" He rubbed his temples. "Tell me she didn't shank him? That's the last thing I need."

Natasha laughed on the other end, but it was a laugh void of humor, and his stomach dropped into the vicinity of his shoes. Benji's eyebrows rose and Clint wanted to groan again; great, another last thing he needed, his (ex?)-boyfriendfinding out his partner/sister/niece(?) had murdered Ethan. _"_ _I wouldn't call it_ shanking, _but she did wipe the floor with his ass and he'll have a splendid scar."_

"Where is he now?" _At least he isn't dead. That's a plus._ Oh yeah, it was a plus. Ethan could deal with a scar, and it would be a reminder not to push or underestimate Laura, or try to give her orders; he had a nasty habit of ordering people around. He was a team leader, and he was used to being in control. He couldn't control Clint, or Tasha, or Laura, and the only thing he would accomplish by trying was pissing off and pushing away his allies.

 _"Strung up like a Christmas present, all we need is a big red bow. " _He could actually hear the grin, and he found himself grinning to, just at the mental picture. "Oh, _please_ tell me that you have pictures. Scratch that, tell me you have _video._ "

She laughed, and with that, the stress drained out of the atmosphere. " _Oh yeah, I have both."_

"Damn, darlin'," Benji scowled at the pet name, and Clint made a mental note to explain and apologize, "I knew there was a reason I love you. Get JARVIS to encrypt the crap out of it, 'cause that's some good old fashioned blackmail material. And with Ethan Hunt, we'll need some of that."

He chuckled again, this time at Benji's expression, and explained, "Ethan got his ass kicked by one of my team, and we have it on video." Seeing Benji's blank look, he added, "She's eighteen, I mentioned her earlier."

Realization lit up Benji's features. "Oh. The serial killer."

Clint nodded, and turned his attention back to the call. "Alright, Tash, we'll be right up. Don't let Laura shish kebob him, the Cap would start bitching about unnecessary bloodshed and senseless murder, and then she takes it out on me." He hung up before she could respond, something he knew he'd been hearing about later.

"Okay, quick rundown," he said as he stood and stretched. "That was Natasha Romanoff, my partner and ex-fiancée, before you ask about the 'darlin'.' I also work with the rest of the Avengers: Iron Man, Captain America, Thor, and the Hulk, slash Doc Banner. Tasha's the Black Widow," he explained. "Laura joined up a few years ago…well, I say _joined,_ it was more she cooperated or the Director passed down a kill order. Plus side, she's made amazing progress; you'd almost believe she's a model citizen, if it weren't for her nasty habit of losing her temper and beheading people."

He snickered at Benji's face. "Yeah…I'm not joking. But, at least she hasn't killed any S.H.I.E.L.D. personnel this week."

**_~ MI4 & A ~_ **

It was just as funny as Clint had imagined. He stood above Ethan Hunt and laughed until his sides hurt, and then he laughed some more; Benji made a choking sound. The great and deadly Ethan Hunt was trussed up but good; he wasn't sure if it had been Natasha or Laura's idea, but _someone_ had decided to tie Ethan spread-eagle to the table in the break room…with duct tape, rope, and was that ribbon? Laura was sitting cross-legged on top of the fridge, eating a sandwich and…

"Hey! That's mine!"

She blinked. She looked entirely too pleased with herself, like the rapid wolverine-cat hybrid that tore the poofy canary to bloody, feathery shreds. He sighed and decided not to pursue it. More often than not, it was easier and less painful to just let her be; the only person she listened to was herself, and she actively defied Fury. As long as she hadn't eaten that piece of chocolate cake he was saving… He spotted the dish in the sink.

"Oh, come _on_!"

Now she outright snickered, and dropped to the floor, landing in a crouch. She tilted her head up towards him, those damn eyes of hers staring up at him in the way that made her look far too innocent. If she was innocent, he was the freaking Tooth Fairy, complete with obnoxiously pink tutu.

"You had way too much fun playing with Hunt, didn't you?" he asked accusingly.

She straightened and shrugged, smirking. "From what you said, I thought he would be tougher." Of _course_ , she would think that Ethan Hunt was an easy win; she'd kicked Clint's ass and hospitalized him when she was a little girl. Hell, the only time she started breathing hard was when she was fighting the Hulk or Captain American.

Instead of rising to the bait, he poked Ethan in the side. The man groaned and twitched, slowly coming back to consciousness. A bruise roughly the size and shape of Laura's fist was forming on the side of his face, and Clint wouldn't be surprised if the agent's nose was broken. Ethan blinked, and scowled when he focused on Clint.

"You! I—" His voice trailed off as he noticed Benji standing off to the side. "Benji?" Now he didn't sound angry, just confused and mildly pissed.

"Ethan," Clint said as he started on the agent's bindings, "we need to talk."

*LONG STORY, STORT EXPLANATION*

"…I need a drink."


End file.
